


a dance.

by sniikt



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: F/M, First Dance, First Kiss, Mutual Pining, Pining, just a ridiculous amount of yearning and pining here friends, now with more pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sniikt/pseuds/sniikt
Summary: a first dance. a last dance. a lot of buried feelings.
Relationships: Joel (The Last of Us)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 211





	1. one

Jackson glowed.

It had been the first order of business, actually. Once there was electricity and everyone had taken the first hot showers anyone had taken in a long while, it seemed like the whole town made it a mission to make Jackson as bright as the noon day sun. Strings of light had been hung everywhere. People would bring back Christmas lights from runs. A whole team of former electricians worked to restore every street lamp in town.

Most of the time, from the safety of the little house you’d lived in for almost two years now, you didn’t notice. Enjoying the swathes of light were usually something that happened from the wall while you were on late night guard duty, or from a distant hill as you jogged back from a run that had gone just a little later than usual. 

Parties were different though.

You shift on your feet and lean backward, feeling the dig of the makeshift bar’s corner into your lower back before squinting your eyes ever so slightly, just to enjoy the way it makes the lights above shimmer and the people glow, like fireflies, dancing to music all their own.

You bask in it for a minute—the warmth and safety of lights and music and even just the people. People who were enjoying life because they were alive and that in and of itself was something to celebrate nowadays.

You drain your glass and turn around to set it on the bar, picking up the jug of some sort of home brewed alcohol that could probably be used to strip paint off the side of a barn. Another glass would probably get you drunk enough to earn a lecture from Tommy in the morning.

Not worth it.

You set the jug down and glance back out across the dying down dance floor. It’s late—most of the families with children are gone by now, and Tommy or Maria will likely send everyone to their homes soon. 

You catch a glimpse of Ellie—bouncing around in a corner of the dance floor with a few of her school friends. 

It means Joel’s probably still around, somewhere. You try not to think too much about why it’s so important to you that he is.

You’d seen him a few times throughout the party—always on the edges of the group, always with a white knuckle grip on his drink, as if it was his lifeline for getting through in one piece.

Part of you had wanted to dance with him.

You thought maybe you were the closest thing to a friend that he had here. You thought maybe that meant he’d ask. 

You were wrong.

Maybe you’d just misread it. You were just guard shift partners. Sometimes patrol partners. Maybe that’s all you were to each other.

The thought makes your stomach twist sharply.

You whip around and without thinking too much about the inevitable lecture, pour yourself another drink. 

You lift it to take a sip—to feel the burn that will hopefully ease the butterflies in your stomach and ache in your chest—when someone taps your shoulder.

It shouldn’t scare you as bad as it does—but habits from outside die hard. You nearly drop your drink as you spin around, fully in fight mode and—

It’s just Joel.

He takes the tiniest step back, pulls his hand away from your shoulder. Clears his throat awkwardly.

“Shit, Joel,” you breathe, setting your glass down before you’re shaking hands break it. “Scared the fuckin’ shit out of me.”

He clears his throat again and runs a hand through his hair before playing with his watch. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and then clears his throat again. “I—uh—said your name but...guess you didn’t hear me. I just—I um—well, I wondered if you’d wanna dance.” He pauses. “With me, I mean.”

The butterflies in your stomach soar, but at least the knot in your chest loosens. “Sure,” you say, with a nod, and the nervous furrowing of his brow disappears, replaced by the slightest smile. 

He offers you his hand.

You take it.

He leads you out to the dance floor—dying down, now, with what is surely the last slow song of the night.

He slides his hands down to your waist, and you try to ignore just how much you like being this close to him.

He gives a nervous huff that he attempts to turn into a laugh as you slide your hands onto his shoulders. “I’m uh—sorry if I step on your feet. Was never much of a dancer.”

You laugh softly, glancing up at him, mesmerized by the way the light catches in his eyes and makes them look almost golden. “I promise I’ll forgive you,” you say, and he gives another nervous huff of a laugh. “So how was your first town party?” You ask, trying to write off the surge of affection in your heart as tipsiness from a little too much of whatever that drink was.

“Ellie’s havin’ fun,” he says, glancing over to where she’s retreated from the dance floor with Dina. 

“Not exactly what I asked,” you say, giving him a grin, and when he looks down at you, he smiles back. 

“Ah, well, didn’t do much partyin’ before, either.” He pauses, staring at you for just a moment. “Y’all do this a lot, then?”

“Parties? I guess so. Not always like this, though. Sometimes it’s more...I dunno. Like a town barbecue or somethin’. Why? You thinkin’ about how to get out of the next one?” It’s a joke—but only partly. You saw how uncomfortable he was—he can’t want to come to more parties. You hope he does comes anyway, though.

He laughs, and after a pause shakes his head. “Nah. Think I could do a barbecue. ‘N I might even be able to get used to dancin’.”

The music ends, and slowly, reluctantly, your swaying with him comes to a halt. His hands linger on your waist though, and you find yourself unwilling to take your hands off his shoulders.

He clears his throat, pulling away slowly. “Guess that’s it,” he says, and his voice sounds hoarse and strained. “Lemme walk you home.”

You laugh, gently, feeling suddenly like a teenager on prom night, walking to the door with your date, hoping he kisses you on your doorstep. “I don’t live far.”

“I know,” he says. “‘s just dark.”

It’s not, but you don’t tell him that.

Instead, you slowly wind your way down streets, taking the long way back, just to walk a little farther with him—just to bump shoulders occasionally and pretend it was an accident.

You stop on the front steps. Waiting for...something. Waiting for him. 

He shifts awkwardly, stares at his hand, where it’s intertwined with yours, before looking at you.

“Um—I—uh,” he pauses. Releases your hand. “See you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” you say softly.

He pulls back a few steps. Awkwardly shifts, before nodding gently at you. “Goodnight,” he says, and then turns to start down the walk.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wish he had kissed you.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> u thought i was done with this. sike

It’s months of almost kisses. Almost kisses on the porch of your house when he walks you home. Almost kisses when he asks you to dance at the next town party. Almost kisses on guard duty when it’s late and the world is quiet and the stars are glowing. Almost kisses during runs when you’re alone, and the woods are nice, and the breeze is cool.

Always, abruptly, Joel pulls away, clearing his throat and changing the subject away from feelings too tender to speak out loud. 

It’s exhausting.

Sometimes you nearly tangle your fingers in his hair (it’s getting long now, and if he’s letting it grow because you mentioned you like it long, he doesn’t say so), and pull him down for an actual, real, kiss.

But you don’t.

It’s too dangerous. Too dangerous to kiss a man with a history of running and avoiding. Too dangerous to fuck up whatever little peace the two of you have found in each other with feelings and kisses.

It’s three months after the first almost kiss that Joel meets you at the bottom of the main watchtower. It’s one of the few nights the two of you are working separately—he’d been doing some construction work on the east end of town for a grumpy old man named George that only Joel really gets along with. He’s sitting at the bottom of the tower when you climb down, cleaning a shotgun, it’s pieces laid out neatly in front of him.

“Hey,” you say gently, and he looks up at you, a gentle smile lighting up his face. “‘s late.”

It’s a question that’s not a question. A ‘why are you here?’ and a hopeful ‘is it for me?’.

“I know,” he says, clearing his throat and adjusting the pieces of the gun nervously. “I only just finished with George. Thought you might like some company on your way home.”

You tug your thin jacket around yourself tighter, anxiously thumbing at the edge of it before giving him a nod. “Yeah,” you say so quietly that the word gets stuck in your throat. “Sure.”

He leaves the gun for another time, reaching his hand out to lead you away from the wall and into town.

You take his hand.

You’ve held hands with him more than a few times now, but neither of you mention it. It’s like the only amount of reassuring love and contact Joel will allow himself, and you’re not sure that you deserve much more anyway. 

But still you wish. Hope.

You walk in silence—comfortable and nice after a long day. His hand is warm, and familiar, and the way his shoulder brushes against yours once in a while sends shivers down your spine.

You both pause at your front gate. 

He breathes in so slowly, quietly, like he’s trying to breathe in the moment, before letting go of your hand.

You take a step back. Disappointed. Again.

“[Name],” he says, choked and quiet.

‘ _ Kiss me _ ,’ you want to say. Instead, you give a whispered “What?”

He look like he’s hurting—soft hazel eyes filled with emotions so deep and painful, and the worry lines in his face deepened, and there’s a little strand of hair falling almost in his eyes and you want to reach up and brush it back for him.

Before you can, he closes the gap between you, letting one of his hands fall to your waist, and the other slides down your arm until it reaches your hand, and he leans down to catch your lips with his.

The kiss is so gentle and soft and lasts barely a second, not nearly long enough for you to savor the way he tastes like mint with the faintest bit of faded scotch, or the way his beard feels soft and just the littlest bit scratchy against your cheeks, or the way his hair brushes against your forehead.

He pulls back with a stilted and breathless “sorry” and lets his hands fall back to his side, and you want to reassure him, you really do, but you feel like you can’t speak, so instead you knot a fist in his shirt collar, and tangle your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and drag him down to kiss you again.

And again.

And again.


End file.
